Kryptonite
by bulletproofsince1999
Summary: Basically, John and Sherlock reunite to find that there's a new enemy on the streets, taking John and Sherlock's friends, one by one and murdering them violently. Will Sherlock be able to mask his emotions as always? Will John fall to heartbrake again, and this time fall too far?
1. Unable To Display Enough To Deduce

**Author's Note: You'll understand the name later... but do enjoy! I promise JohnLock later! :)**

* * *

Kryptonite

Unable To Display Enough To Deduce

John had escaped the hospital again and had declared that he was going to the bar after work. Mary didn't complain, although from a doctor's stand point, she was concerned. She had said as much as John was grabbing his jacket from his chair and his keys to lock up after himself.

"I'm just going for a pint with the guys, no need to worry, love." But he knew he would get smashed, and he knew that Mary would have to deal with him. That was why he decided to visit Mrs. Hudson before he went anywhere else.

The dark seeped through the curtains to her flat as he said, "I might come back here and crash, would you be okay with that?" he asked through the mustache that Mrs. Hudson had said aged him.

"That would be okay, dearie. I still haven't gone through his things yet. I feel like I might mess some things up if I do," she almost cried. No, she wouldn't cry in front of John, he didn't need that.

"Okay," John nodded. He knew that he would probably get emotional and come back here on instinct. It was what he had done last time. _God, that sounds so bad, 'last time.' _He had even half expected Sherlock to be sitting in his chair, waiting for John to get home.

But he knew better. And as he left, he hailed a cab and recited an address he didn't think he'd repeat, but he did. The cabbie sighed and drove as John thought about his friend beside him. Even after 'getting over it', the thought still made him sink into the seat more and wish he had said what he wanted to.

But, it was over and Sherlock was six feet under and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

* * *

The door to his old flat swung open as he trudged up the stairs. Once he had reached the main room, he remembered that Sherlock wasn't here. But he couldn't go see Mary, not like this. She didn't need the extra stress.

So he pressed on, throwing his coat down on his chair as he stumbled, not forgetting the alcohol that stung his eyes. Or was that the tears that had returned? He didn't know. He couldn't find the will to care to find out, either.

And as he stumbled up the stairs to his old room, he found it. God! That retched blue thing! It always finds him in the darkest of hours. He picked up the scarf from the floor, and tripped as he fell in the hallway, in front of his room.

He sat up and plucked his shoes from his feet, _Might as well, I'm already down_. He hiccupped and threw the scarf into Sherlock's room as he shuffled by. He didn't dare to open the door completely. He shuffled to his own room and threw himself in the familiar sheets.

He wrapped himself in the blankets and consumed the smell of the old him. The one that had danger throughout his life and was never bored because his flatmate was a bloody high functioning arse. _Oh, I'm sorry, sociopath. _He was angry now and threw one of his pillows at the wall.

When it bounced off the wall it landed on the floor in a huff. Wait, that wasn't a pillow hitting the floor sound. There was a shadow in his doorway. It didn't speak, just fluttered off into the main room. John could have sworn he'd seen a long coat follow.

_Great, so now on top of a bloody headache, I'm hallucinating. Fucking brilliant! _He rolled over defiantly and pulled the covers over his shoulder and fell asleep in anger at himself and the friend who wasn't here to comfort him.

* * *

John woke, confused as to why he was fully clothed and in his old flat, and why he had such a huge bloody fucking head ache. He sat up as the sunlight crept through the curtain and he realized what he had done. _Why do I keep doing this? Mary is going to be so pissed. _

He heard someone moving around in the kitchen and decided it was Mrs. Hudson since he heard the kettle boiling. He left his room and right in the front of his door, was that blasted scarf! He picked it up, confused. He threw this back in Sherlock's room.

He strangled it as if it had a life to loose, then he threw it in Sherlock's room again as he collected his shoes from the hall where he had thrown them. He slipped them back on as he walked out down to the main room. He didn't bother looking in the kitchen as he looked longing at Sherlock' silky blue robe.

His fingertips spread over it as he remembered his friend falling and how he hadn't been able to do a thing but stand there like an idiot and take orders from his broken sociopath. His fingers twitched as his phone buzzed.

Text from Mary: **Coming home, now? – MM **

**I'm sorry, yeah. I'll be there in a little – JW **

"Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea, thanks," as he grabbed his coat from the chair he had slung it over. When there was response, he looked into the kitchen. He dropped his coat as he looked at the man before him. Those eyes, the curls, the slim body. Had he gained weight? No, bandages, "You sodding fucking asshole!" he couldn't help but to be pissed after shocked.

The water was done being boiled and Sherlock gingerly made the tea as he took no notice to John's reaction. "Hello, John," he simply replied. His voice made John shiver and he was pissed again.

Was he dreaming? No, the pain in his fist when he hit the wall determined that. His knuckles were bleeding as he ripped Sherlock from the two cups of tea and slammed him into the wall. He raised his fist to strike, but Sherlock's face had stopped him.

He showed no emotions in his features. But his eyes had widened and he was afraid. Not of John's punch, but for John. Because of John. John twitched and his hand lowered to his side as Sherlock stared at the dripping blood.

It hit the kitchen floor as John flexed his hand, now noticing the pain, "John," Sherlock was at a loss for words as his mask fell off and the emotions splayed across his features. His brows furrowed and his lips curled into a sad frown.

John turned from him and didn't see this on Sherlock's face. So he fixed it and the mask flipped back on as John turned back around. Sherlock looked bored. But John's face was twisted with anger, sadness and happiness, and Sherlock had a hard time deducing the other. He knew it was there, but what was that? The wild look about John's eyes.

As John placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock seized his wrist. _No, not now. Not when you were so happy with Mary. Just forget those feelings John, forget it. _John seemed to read Sherlock's thoughts as his pulse slowed and his eyes returned to the normal anger, sadness and happiness.

Sherlock let a mental sigh of relief sweep over him as he said, "I don't like it," he still sounded bored.

"I'm sorry, what?" Sherlock let go of him as he stole a kitchen chair. He examined his hand, and simply licked the blood from it and decided it didn't need a bandage.

Sherlock observed this, "The mustache. I don't like it," Sherlock finally said as he took the tea from the counter and it was still warm as he set a cup down in front of John.

"Mary does," John defended the atrocity on his upper lip.

"No, she doesn't," he sipped on the tea.

"Yes, she does," John wouldn't let it go.

"Believe what you want. By the way, you should get back to her," Sherlock pointed out. John's eyes widened as he realized that he should.

But, "What about you, Sherlock?" he asked.

"Me?" as if he didn't even consider the fact that he was here and John wanted to be with him.

"Yes, you," John was taking this too well. Sherlock deduced that he was hiding the feelings for later, so that he didn't break down in front of his best friend.

"I'm fine. I want you to be happy. Go home, John. I'm already there," Sherlock knew the sooner John left, the sooner her would admit his feelings and the sooner he would let it all out and he'll be okay. Sherlock needed him to be okay, because Sherlock wouldn't be okay if John wasn't.

All those nights of barely any sleep were going to be worth something, and he wanted so bad, for his nightmares to be just that, nightmares. He didn't want John to be hurt anymore. "Fine, but I'm coming back here and you're going to tell me exactly what was going on, you hear me?" he was finally showing the anger he was trying not to.

"I promise, John. Now go. She needs you just as much as you need her," Sherlock knew that wasn't true, but John would find out the truth soon enough, and for now, he needs to be happy. Blindly happy.

As John left, Sherlock found himself not being able to focus. All he could think about was John and how Mary was going to react to the fact that she wasn't ever who he thinks she is. But that's for a later date. A much later date…

"What?! John! Go to him!" Mary demanded of her boyfriend.

"But, I have a feeling he doesn't want me around, he-"

She slapped him lightly, "Doesn't want you around?!" she settled, "John, look, baby. I have to go to work, but you need to go to him, and make him tell you how he feels."

"That's the thing, love. He doesn't feel, I doubt he even cares if I had committed suicide while he was gone," John admitted what he was really thinking.

Mary shook him lightly, "Are you kidding me?" she said in a low voice. She kissed her blond, "I don't know him, but I know you, and you change people," _you changed me, _"And I'll bet right now, he's debating on whether he should tell you he's sorry," she made him realize that his best friend needed him. Or at least she thought she made him realize this. He honestly didn't register realization at this point.

John showed no emotion. Mary hated to see him like this, "Sure. I need a shower, and I'll go later. I guess," he told her.

She sighed and pulled him into a passionate kiss. But when John kissed her back, he didn't feel anything. His flatmate was back and he couldn't feel a thing. The anger was gone, the sadness had left with it. He was happy that his friend was alive, but what else was there to feel?

She left as John slipped into the shower. Afterwards, he shaved. Not because Sherlock had told him to, because he knew Sherlock was right. _That bloody bastard is always right…_

* * *

John slapped his best mask on his face and walked through the door of his old flat again, for the second agonizing time today. He found Sherlock still sitting in the kitchen. It seemed as though he hadn't left that spot, but he had his hands steepled under his chin.

"John, come to try to talk," he said, it wasn't a question, just a simple deduction. John smirked at that, _so he's still a smart arse._

John sat again, but this time, in his chair in the main room, "Mary says I should. But there isn't any emotion to talk about, is there?" he hated the sound of that word now. Sherlock had rubbed off on him with that fact that John didn't like his emotions anymore.

_Sherlock never had them in the first place. _Dear John, you couldn't be more wrong. Under that pale mask were so many raging emotions, he just didn't know how to spit them out. "No, is there?" he asked to assure himself and John.

"No…" _Then why do I feel like there's something I want to tell him? Hadn't I already settled this at his grave? Do I have to say what I always feared saying? No, that would ruin everything with Mary. But, it's on the tip of my tongue and I want to so badly._

"John," that voice was bending over him and stroking his shoulder. Sherlock displaying the emotion he felt the most in this moment. He hated confusing his doctor, but he needed to say this, "I missed you," he said simply as the emotion faded again.

John didn't know how to reply. But then his mouth said before he could catch it, "I loved you. No scratch that," he stood and turned to his shocked friend, "I love you!"

"I love you, too. But-"

"No, you stupid git, I. Love. You," Sherlock just realized what he was saying. His eyes widened as they stood there in silence and tension.

"You. Love me? Dear God, John! You let sentiment get to you again?" this was the reaction he had expected and he was still angry. Why was he angry? He expected Sherlock to reject him, so why was he feeling so… heartbroken? No, sad…

"You… sodding… fuck…." He suddenly found himself saying. Sherlock was shocked again. John had never used those words on him before. Not while he was sober.

"I. What?" his breath caught and he was letting emotions get to him. He choked them down and the mask never faded. John was writhing, he was even shaking. But John heard the emotion crack his best friend's voice.

He looked into those bluish grey eyes and saw what he didn't want to believe. Hurt, Sherlock was hurt by John's insult. _Good, serves him right. But then why do I feel guilty? _

He screamed in frustration as he slammed the door to his bedroom behind him. Why had he retreated to his room? Why hadn't he walked out? Why was he hoping Sherlock would invade his privacy like old times?

He didn't know. So he gathered himself and as he tore out of the flat, Sherlock couldn't tell what John was thinking. That blank stare that was straight ahead told Sherlock nothing. Except that John was going to his gravestone.

Why? So he could make sure this was all real. He hailed a cab, and recited the address that had caused him pain for so long. He walked up to Sherlock's grave.

He sat in front of the headstone and thought hard about this. Sherlock had followed him. Like he always had, following John to the ends of the earth. He observed John's straight posture and he still couldn't deduce what was going on in that blond head of his.

He could see his eyes calculating, but he couldn't see past that. What was he thinking about? Why did Sherlock suddenly feel the urge to comfort John? He had never done so before, why should there be a need to now? But he felt lonely, even with John sitting there, he felt as he wanted to hold him, just to make sure he wasn't alone.

But then, why did he care if he was alone? He never did before, why now? What was so different? Then he realized, it was because John was lonely. It was because his little soldier was falling apart at the seams, and Sherlock had done this.

He had tried to save John, but all he did was cause him to hurt himself. He tried to heal and all he did was infect the wound he pressed himself to. He tried to guard, but all he did was fall asleep and the prisoner escaped. All he was to John now, was a dead man who was haunting him.

This was why Sherlock left John to himself and went to see Lestrade. He would say he wasn't dead and then make him give Sherlock a case. He needed to think about something that wasn't John.

But even that didn't work. He returned to the flat, the case solved, but he still had John stuck to his brain. It might as well have been like a sticky note on his forehead, plastered for him to keep seeing and he wouldn't let it go until the adhesive wore off.

In this case, it seemed to be superglue. He pulled his coat from his shoulders and he didn't turn around until he was pinned to the door behind him.

"Sherlock," John growled, "I need to tell you something and you have to promise not to insult me. I've had enough, and I need you to not be an arse," he said.

"I'll try," he smirked as John let go, grunting in frustration. "What is it?" Please let it not be what was brought up earlier. Sherlock needed not that to think about.

As John spoke, Sherlock's eyes widened, and he felt like screaming at John. "I'm leaving Mary," he said slowly, "and there's nothing you can do about it. But I want you to know that it's your fault," John pinned the blame to Sherlock.

"Mine?" he seemed angry. "You have a chance to be happy and you're throwing it away? Why would you do that!? John, you bloody idiot!" Sherlock was pissed now. He was letting it seep through, but only because John needed to see that Mary was making him happy. Giving him all that Sherlock couldn't.

"I'm not throwing it away," John stated. "I'm replacing my chances with ones that are more dangerous, yes. But do you know what?" Sherlock pursed his lips at this, "I don't care. I don't care if this is wrong, because damn, it feels right," he huffed and sat in his chair in the main room.

Sherlock sat in his own, hiding his emotions again and treating John as he had before, "Right how?" still not sure what John was thinking about, and that irritated him to no end, but he needed to hear this.

"Right because… I don't know, it just. It feels as though if I don't do this, I'll disappoint so many more people later on than if I do it now," he explained to himself and the detective studying him from across the other chair.

"John, why do you plan to break it off?" Sherlock had to ask. He couldn't deduce it and he had to ask now. He felt as though it was foolish, but he had to.

"Oh, you don't know?" John asked, surprised. He had figured that Sherlock would have deduced this by now.

* * *

**So? What do you think? Please do review, it will help immensely. : )**


	2. The Feeling Is Mutual

The Feeling Is Mutual

Oh, Sherlock knew, he just didn't want to admit that John could do such a thing. "You love her," Sherlock tried to get him to change his mind about this.

"I love you more," he countered.

"No, that's just the-"

"Don't tell me it's the depression or stress talking. I have had enough of that shit. Sherlock, I'm doing this. Don't wait up for me, but I will be back, and this will be sorted out," John said as he walked down the stairs.

"What will be sorted out?" he had to ask from the doorway. John paused halfway down the stairs and walked back up.

He looked at Sherlock with a yearning in his eyes, "Us, we will be sorted out. And we'll get cases and it will return to normal as everything will be forgotten," John declared and he wanted to believe this. It was so much easier when everything was simple and John and Sherlock were running around London, chasing a killer.

John shut the door behind himself and hailed a cab as he headed back to his home where Mary would be.

* * *

He had waited up for her, and she finally came through the door as he said, "Mary, I need to talk to you. And by the end of this, you will no doubt hate me. But this has to be done," he sat back down and looked over to his small bag of things he had packed from the house that was his. But after this, it definitely won't be.

"Don't be so sure," she said as she pulled her coat from her shoulders and sat down in front of her boyfriend, who was soon not going to be anything to her.

"Oh no," he decided to just come out with it, "You know that Sherlock has been haunting me, but I never told you the real reason it hurt so much. I never told you that I love him," he said.

Her eyes widened and her lips straightened, "Well, actually. I was about to ask you about him. I think we should break up," she admitted.

"Agreed," he said sadly. But she made him look at her.

"John," he tried not to let the tears fall, but hers fell freely, and he instantly regretted this, "I know how much he means to you. But if I have to give you up so that you can be happy, I gladly will," John was shocked at this.

"What?! But you-"

"I love you, yes. But it doesn't mean I'm selfish. I can tell that now that he's back, you want him more than anything. You want him to take you running again. And I will gladly let you," she smiled through her teary green eyes.

"I'm so sorry," and he grabbed his things and left before he could say anymore. He didn't want this to hurt anymore than it had to. He placed all the blame on himself, despite what he had told Sherlock about it being his fault. John knew this was his own doing and he would never forgive himself for today, but he had to do this, before he hurt the people around him by lying to himself and them.

He never was gay, but Sherlock somehow pushed past that boundary, and nestled himself into John's heart. He was there to stay and John hated it, but he needed Sherlock to be full. And he just couldn't love Mary if he wasn't all himself.

He couldn't give her half of his heart if it was already taken. She couldn't be his life, if he only had half of one to begin with. And as he recited his address for the final time that night, he felt everything click back into place and the only thing he was truly guilty of, was letting Sherlock rule his heart and his head.

Sherlock had his heart tied in bleeding knots and his brain felt like it hadn't had oxygen in years, God! He needed another high speed chase to get his blood pumping and make him forget things for a while. He would call Lestrade in the morning to see if there was a case they could work on.

* * *

Sherlock was pleased when the subject of a case came up, "Yes, that would be lovely. Perhaps something dangerous, and sends electricity running down your spine. Something that makes your blood run cold," he was smiling at this and John was getting a little creeped out, but then he laughed.

"Sherlock, you do realize that a normal person would run from situations like that, not to them?" he mused.

"Well, that's boring, isn't it?" he commented, actually serious. And John just laughed again. Sherlock loved John's laugh and he loved it so much more when it wasn't in his mind palace, when he could hear it for himself.

They were slowly turning back into themselves. Very slowly, well. Sherlock was already almost there, but John had a long ways before he could be considered John again. He had a twice broken heart to mend and his mind was numb.

"I'm going to bed, wake me when… I don't know. Maybe I'll just fall asleep and never wake up. Who gives a fuck?" as he ascended the four stairs to his room.

Sherlock stopped him with a hand to his arm, "John, I give a fuck. And I know it may not seem like it, but I do care. If you never woke up, I would die. For real," and he let go. But John couldn't move. He was rooted to the spot as Sherlock's words hit him. Mary had used those words on him two days ago.

He felt like he betrayed her. And he went to his room and curled up into his bed, he finally sobbed. For Mary, for Sherlock and for himself. Mainly the others, though. John couldn't help but feel as though he didn't deserve to be loved so much that people would sacrafice things for him.

He felt as though he should be hated and die. "John?" Sherlock peeked through the door and he let in unwelcome light as John rolled over away from it.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" he tried not to sound mean or as if he had been letting out emotions that he hated so much but couldn't help feeling.

"I want to sleep with you. Just sleep, I think it might help both of us," Sherlock added, just to see if John would give in. There was no reply, John still had tears running and he felt as if the knot in his throat would make him choke before he would ever be able to talk properly.

Sherlock took this as an answer and closed the door behind himself, inching closer to John. He stripped his blue robe and climbed in after his flatmate. "John?" he asked again as John decided to settle and let Sherlock cuddle into him.

"Hum?" he tried not to speak as the tears slowed, but still flowed.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. John felt that go straight to his heart as Sherlock's arms went around his chest and shoulders. This made the tears fall faster again and they hit Sherlock's arm as he realized just how much emotion John had been hiding. He knew it was overwhelming, but he didn't know it had been this much.

He rolled John over and put himself on top of his flatmate. He hips were in between John's legs as tears ran uncontrollably down his temples, and Sherlock's ran down the length of his nose and hit John's cheeks. John was surprised and through those wide eyes did tears still fall, "Sherlock?"

"I… didn't realize," he stuttered, J-just how much you were hurting. I thought you were my soldier, John? But then again, I thought I would be able to swallow my emotions, but I guess not," he chuckled and smiled through his tears and John tried.

But he couldn't. He turned away and his face was buried into his pillows as his back was turned on Sherlock. He decided he would let his soldier _(my soldier?)_ cry and he settled down beside him. He was also on his belly and he had thrown an arm over John's back, and was stroking his side as they let tears fall and became exhausted and fell asleep.

* * *

John woke and to his surprise, Sherlock was wrapped around him in a way that was so comfortable, and taken out of context, people would get the worst idea of them. But wasn't that wrong idea being supported with the fact that Mary and John had a mutual break-up because John wanted Sherlock more?

John shook himself and in doing so, he stirred Sherlock, "Mm, John," he said.

"Yes, Sherlock," he sighed and cursing himself for raising the detective.

"I haven't had so much sleep in so long. Thank you," he sighed and rubbed his eyes as he sat up. John gave him a confused look and to avoid explanations, John rose, "Coffee?" Sherlock asked. John nodded and sighed as he slipped out of bed after his detective.

Their feet shuffled in the hall and down the stairs when Mrs. Hudson was in the kitchen. Sherlock stopped John, "Did you tell her yet?" John asked, referring to the landlady in their kitchen. A smile played on Sherlock's lips and John took that as a, 'No, and I'm about to surprise her with it,' he smacked Sherlock's bottom lightly, "Go on," John taunted.

He jumped and stumbled, but John saved him from falling. He was careful not to hold Sherlock's chest, his ribs were still bruised and needed time to heal. John knew Sherlock was abusing them already, and he didn't want that to hurt him.

So he had grabbed Sherlock's waist and held him close as Sherlock said, "Sh," he grinned and shuffled on the carpet.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson's slight curls looked from the kitchen and she saw the man standing there, in his PJs, and dropped everything, shattering a coffee mug. John went to cleaning it up as their landlady hugged Sherlock extremely tight. He winced at the strain on his ribs, and John looked worried, but she released and it was okay.

The mug was gone from the floor and Mrs. Hudson finished making coffee and poured two cups and scuttled out of the flat, leaving John and Sherlock to have 'alone time'. They had already had this, but they enjoyed each other's company nonetheless.

"John," Sherlock started, "Last night, um. I wanted to say that I really am truly sorry. For everything," John consumed these words as his own were caught in his throat.

"No, I'm sorry," Sherlock was taken aback, and stunned. John is sorry? But he didn't do anything. "I doubted you, and I started hating you. Even though I know it's not possible for me to hate you," he smirked and kept his eyes on the table, "What I'm saying is, I shouldn't have doubted your ability to do what was right," he was nervously tapping his fingers to the table top now.

The one table, John smiled, with all Sherlock's shit scattered over it. "John, I don't deserve an apology," Sherlock said, all emotion gone, just his bored tone.

"I don't care, I gave you one and if you don't accept it, I won't accept yours," he threatened. Sherlock simply nodded and John took that as an accepting nod. John returned it, pursing his lips, and Sherlock stared.

He wondered, suddenly, if John's lips were as soft as his hair. Sherlock had felt John's hair before, for a weird experiment, but that aside, what do his lips feel like? He looked at them, deducing from the way they stood about his chin, that they would feel wonderful.

John caught Sherlock staring and the man blushed as John was confused. _So, Sherlock Holmes, the great sociopathic detective, has feelings? Interesting… _

Sherlock could feel John's eyes on him, now returning the favour of staring, but John's eyes, instead, caught Sherlock's. John's blue denim eyes bored deep into Sherlock's bluish grey eyes and they found themselves shivering at the raw emotion found. The depression that had plagued them for two years, the happiness of being around again, and the temporary sadness of losing someone close to them.

Sherlock then found himself repeating John's drum beat as their fingers tapped away at the cluttered table. Sherlock grew impatient and narrowed his eyes, deducing the rest of John now. He then stood and standing behind his soldier, massaged his shoulder, noticing that it was aching from the position they had slept in last night. _Wow, take these thoughts out of context and it really DOES sound as if we were shagging…. _

Though, Sherlock never really cared what other people thought. John swore up and down he was straight, but Sherlock never answered the questions he was asked about John and him. He simply ignored everyone's stupidity, especially his brother's when he had approached Sherlock about his relationship with John.

Sherlock told him that he would leave that answer to his deductions and he had left it unanswered. Simply because he didn't care what people thought about it, plus, even he was confused as to what their relationship status was.

They were flatmates, best friends, but so much more. But they weren't shagging _Yet. God, what is wrong with me?! _

John's shoulder relaxed under Sherlock's magical fingertips and John thanked him. He hadn't even noticed it was hurting until Sherlock had started moving his fingers around. Then Sherlock got an idea, "Why don't we skip the cases today," he suggested, "I have a better idea that will help both of us," he said.

"Skip out on cases?" he turned, surprised at Sherlock, "What could be so much more important?" John's brows furrowed as he feared the answer.

Sherlock shrugged, "You," John gulped and Sherlock lead him from the kitchen chair, "I'm going to relax you, and with each relaxed muscle, you will tell me an emotion you are currently feeling," Sherlock told him as he laid him out on the couch, on his back first.

"Are you going to hypnotize me?" because that was what it sounded like.

"Nonsense," Sherlock kneeled, "I'm simply learning things about you and not prying. And later you will do the same," Sherlock admitted. John was so surprised at Sherlock that he just let him flex his fingers over John's body.

First and foremost, the knots in John's neck, from leaning over a computer and a desk all day. His fingers feathered through John's hair as well as he moaned in pleasure at this, "Tell me an emotion," Sherlock demanded.

"Endearment," John sighed as his eyes fluttered closed. Sherlock probed further down to his other shoulder. Sherlock demanded another emotion, "Abandonment," John admitted with another sigh.

Then it was right under his pectorals where anyone tensed up sometimes. Another emotion, "Anger," John whispered loudly. His fists clenched, but Sherlock wrapped his hand around one and he relaxed again. Then, his hip to the bad leg, "Melancholy," John admitted.

Then the thigh to his bad leg, "Delight," John smiled and Sherlock returned it as he made John lay on his stomach. He caught the one that Massage therapists always miss, in between the shoulder blades. I know, obvious, right? Which is why they miss it.

John sunk into the cushions as they smelled of Sherlock still, "Wonder," and Sherlock knew what he meant as he said again, "Curiosity," and Sherlock smirked. Then there was the small of his back and John let out, "Love," and Sherlock grinned as John chuckled a little with that one.

Then there was his feet, and with both hands he rubbed the soles of John's tortured feet. John's word drifted out over to Sherlock and the letters hit him and he didn't believe it at first as they spelled, "Lust…" John had hesitated with that one, but Sherlock knew why.

John felt refreshed as he jumped to his tingly feet, "Your turn," he beamed, excited that he could hear Sherlock's emotions float from his lips.

Sherlock took John's spot as John fell to this knees and repeated the motions Sherlock had taken to him. Sherlock had to say, John's hands revealed a lot that even he had no idea were there, and they flew out, "Resentment… surprise… desire… smothered… forgotten… happiness… shot…" and he surprised himself with repeating what John had said, "Lust…" but he didn't hesitate, it was just one of those things that came out and he regretted it moments later.

John smirked, "Why don't we just get a case…?" Sherlock started to pop up but John pushed him down and kissed him on the cheek. He didn't touch Sherlock anymore than resting his face against Sherlock's and they just waited for someone or something to make their eyes disconnect. _(I was right, his lips are lovely). _But they looked closer, and they could see all the emotions stated flooding through the colors, making them shine brighter.

Then Sherlock's phone chimed and John raced to get it, but Sherlock swiped it before he could read the text from Lestrade. He ended up looking over Sherlock's shoulder anyway: **How R U, btw? U did just come back from the dead and all… -L**

**I'm fine, don't text me without a good case… -SH **John laughed at how harsh that would sound, being a text and all, but he knew Lestrade wouldn't take it personally. This was Sherlock, after all. John hugged Sherlock from behind, careful of his chest. Even when he had massaged Sherlock, he took care not to hurt him.

Sherlock was thankful for this. But then his cell rang. He answered, knowing it was Mycroft, "What the hell do you want?" he was irritated as his hand brushed over John's, and John's heart skipped a beat. Even in his irritation, he was thinking of John.

Their fingers locked in a weird sort of backwards way, but he was happy as Mycroft bugged him, "I just wanted to make you settled well, and I didn't want to come over because… well, you know how reunions are between lost loved ones," Mycroft was assuming he And John were shagging, again.

"Yes, tedious. But you of all people should know that John and I are only friends," _for now… _they both thought. John wasn't disappointed, but he knew Sherlock would probably let his brother know as soon as John and him had gotten together _(if)_. Not because he wanted to, because his older brother wasn't stupid.

Although, when it came to John and Sherlock, he seemed to be exceedingly stupid, "Oh well, happy trails, little brother," and he hung up. Sherlock almost threw the phone at the wall, but John took it from his hand as Sherlock faced his blondie blogger.

John threw it to the chair and pulled Sherlock into a hug, with his arms around Sherlock's neck instead of his torso. "Your brother is an arse, isn't he?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, "What am I? To you?" John had to ask.

"You are my…" he gulped down the word as he was afraid John would leave, "you understand me, and that is more than I could ever ask for."

"That doesn't answer my question. Who am I to you?" he pressed further.

"I would say my lover, but that's too boring. Oh! You're my partner in crime. Not my best friend, but we're not in one of those tedious relationship things," Sherlock's hands settled on the small of John's back. "We're perfectly in the middle," he smiled smugly at his reply.

* * *

**Tell me what you think so far, please? Reviews? **


	3. The Tombs Under Us

**Author's Note: There aren't actually tombs in London like this. This is all completely fictional. But enjoy it anyway!**

* * *

The Tombs Under Us

"Tedious, huh?" John chuckled.

"Yes, very. I honestly don't know how you ever kept a girlfriend," Sherlock pointed out.

"I didn't," he was almost angry.

"Exactly," Sherlock smiled down on him and he let go and sat in his chair, letting out a huff doing so. John was about to say something, but Sherlock cut him short, "And don't tell me those were my fault, they were yours," he stated.

"How so?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Because you weren't actually interested. It was obvious that you were too wrapped up in me to date anyone else. Besides, with your life, there really isn't room for anyone else but me," Sherlock stated, void of emotion, he was just deducing.

"Mhm. So what's you're saying is that you were jealous," John chuckled softly and crossed his arms over his chest as Sherlock tried to protest, "Oh, they were just for a case?" Sherlock nodded, his curls bouncing and he flopped on the couch.

"By the way, can we get a case now? I'm terribly bored," he complained.

"You never will change, doesn't matter if you've been through torture or you were on a murder spree, you never will change," John shook his head. Sherlock shrugged as much as he could, laying down and all.

"Did you expect me to?" he asked, matter of factly. John shrugged and pulled out his cell, texting Lestrade. But when there wasn't an answer in the next half hour, John and Sherlock began to worry. Well, John worried while Sherlock thought he could already be on a case.

"I'm going down to the Yard, if you care for him at all, you'll join me," John said, and he was grabbing his coat. Sherlock decided he would follow. He did care about Lestrade, just not the way he cared for John. Sherlock wouldn't die if Lestrade did, but he would at least mourn the loss of a colleague.

* * *

"What do you mean he's not home or answering any calls? How long has he been missing?" John was questioning Sally while Sherlock was stuck with Anderson in his ear.

Sally was frazzled while Anderson was just being a dick, "I knew you were alive, by the way," he started.

"Shut up, Anderson." And he walked up behind John and put a hand to his shoulder, "Don't worry, John. We'll find him," _Hopefully. _Sherlock honestly didn't know. He wanted to believe that Lestrade was okay, but he wouldn't have gone without a fight.

"Give me the address to his flat," John demanded. Sally was about to protest or maybe say she didn't know, "I don't care what rules we're breaking, you want him found, don't you?" John asked her. she flattened her lips and nodded briefly.

She wrote it down on a small piece of paper, "Don't mess anything up, Freak," she handed Sherlock the address, knowing he would be the one to look through things.

The carbide there was silent, thinking about where Lestrade could have gone. And if he was taken, who would take him? Of course, these was John's thoughts, Sherlock didn't think a thing of it until he could get more data.

But once they reached the slightly messy flat, Sherlock didn't even walk through the door completely before he left again. John followed and Sherlock analyzed the data he had collected. Lestrade was taken, but for what purpose? Does he know something that most don't? is this another villain trying to get to Sherlock or John? Or both?

John saw Sherlock's eyes go wild and he closed them in thought. Sherlock couldn't find a bloody thing. He hated to say this, but they would have to wait until someone else disappeared. He told John as much and he simply nodded. "You aren't going to question me, this time?"

"I believe in you. always did, always will." He nodded and Sherlock hailed a cab. John didn't hear the address, but from the route they were taking, they were going to the morgue. But what for? Molly.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know. I wish I did, but if you find some things that need analyzing I'm always here," she smiled sadly and Sherlock nodded. He was starting to worry, just a little now. He left Molly alone again, to her cadavers.

Line Break

Molly was just minding her own business, cutting up things as she always did, and she was starting to like doing it. It relieved her stress, somehow. _Stress, reminds me of Sherlock. Then again, everything reminds me of that arse… but he has John. _She sighed as she heard a voice behind her.

"Molly," it whispered. She couldn't tell if it was male or female, but her impulse to find out was not going to rule her head. So she decided to ignore whoever it was, and if they really wanted to talk to her, they would approach her. after all, that was how all the horror movies started. With the blond walking into something stupid, _I will not be that blond… _

But the voice persisted, "Molly… Molly Hooper…" then she heard a giggle, still, she couldn't tell if it was male or female.

She turned around to try to see of anyone was in the room, "Whoever you are, leave me alone, I have work to do," she demanded. Thy giggled again, and she was leaning towards a woman, but the whispers sounded more male.

She had no idea. "Come and play Molly Hooper…" And she had to drop the things she was holding before they fell to the floor. Images flashed through her mind and she had no idea what they were. It looked as though it was a cave, but it had hallways and bones, human bones. "Come and play…" and there were suddenly fingers in her hair.

Why had she let it down today? It was so long it reached her bum as she was ripped back, she gritted her teeth and closed her eyes to start to yell at someone but she suddenly couldn't breathe.

She woke with a huge sodding head ache and there was dust in the air, and as she looked down, there were bones under her feet. She was breathing dead people's dust, yum…

They were everywhere, she couldn't even see the floor, except for where it met the stone wall. It was dirt and she coughed so that she could breathe properly. She looked around herself, and it was mostly dark, but she could see because there was a torch that barely lit the room she was put in.

She whimpered and sat against the wall, throwing back bones so that she could sit. She thought about this, and it didn't seem logical. None of it did, this has to be a nightmare. Yes, that's what this was, and she would soon be awake, back in her flat.

She tried to hope, but this was so strange. Why had she just passed out and now was here. Even if this was a dream, what is this place? "Molly?" that voice was familiar…

* * *

Sherlock had resorted to the last thing he wanted to. He needed to find Lestrade and therefore he had to call Mycroft to see if he had anything. Ugh…

But then, as he held the phone in his hands, Mycroft called him, he answered, "Mycroft," and they said in unison, "Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock shook his head, "I thought he was with you, maybe."

"Me? Wha-, oh please. I thought he'd be with you on a case or something."

"Well, I can't find him, no one can. I even asked Sally," Sherlock complained. John just sat, in his chair, trusting Sherlock's ability to find his friend. _Friend? Yes, I think he and Lestrade are close… at one point I was sure they were extremely close. I was so naïve… _

"Well, dear brother, it looks as though Lestrade has given you another case, except with this one, it's serious," Mycroft said.

"And the other ones weren't?" he heard Mycroft sigh and hang up. "Retched sodding brother!" he almost threw his phone again. John tried to talk to him and he instead threw the phone at John. He caught it, but threw it back.

Sherlock let it hit his chest and fall to the floor. He had his head hung and his curls were over his face, so John couldn't see his eyes, "Sherlock?" he now felt sorry.

But Sherlock wouldn't throw a fit over a phone. No, this was something different. He heard nothing from Sherlock but shallow breathing as Sherlock plunged himself into his mind palace. So deep, that the outside world was gone to him.

His eyes were squeezed shut and he was running around every corner, searching for an answer he knew he would never find. But he searched, turning over everything. he ran faster and sometimes he walked.

John was worried, he heard Sherlock panting lightly, then he was fine. John took his pulse, slower than usual, and he was barely breathing. What was he doing? After a few more minutes of this, John panicked and called Mycroft, "He's not moving! He won't speak and he's barely fucking alive!" John was yelling.

"John, he's gone deep into his mind palace, looking for an answer that isn't there, you need to get him out," Mycroft explained.

"And just how the hell do I do that?!" John yelled angrily, but he was worried and Mycroft could hear this.

"John, you love him, do you not?" John mumbled a yes, "Tell him that, and if that doesn't work, then I don't know," he admitted and then he hung up.

John knew this wouldn't work, he'd seen men freeze like this before, letting their body become a shell as they slowly died on the inside. So he tried it, as he laid his hands on Sherlock's, "Sherlock," John started, "I love you," he whispered into those curls.

He twitched, but it didn't work. "Sherlock," he warned, "If you don't come back to me, I'll leave you. I won't come back, because you didn't come back," John promised.

Sherlock twitched again, and now he was shaking. He was being pushed out the gates, and now he was just standing there, unsure of what to do. Then he heard John speaking to him and he followed this voice. He followed his John to the world again.

He was still lost as John continued, "Come on, we have to do this together, love, or it will definitely fail. Sherlock, I love you," he tried again. When Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, he hugged his detective.

Sherlock's arms wrapped around his soldier, "John?" the blond hummed, "I'm sorry, I lost myself in… my mind palace, I tried to find something, but it wasn't working. But I heard you, and I love you, too." He snuggled into John's neck and John's arms hung around Sherlock's neck as he looked into the eyes of that detective he would do anything for.

Sherlock's phone chimed again, and he let go of John to pick it up. It said it was from Lestrade but: **Sherlock, this is Sally, I found Lestrade's phone, but I still can't find him… -L **

He almost crushed this phone, and John decided he would just take it for good and slipped in into his pocket. Sherlock didn't protest, but he would definitely have to dig for that later. As John was pulled into another hug, he noticed that the bandages were gone. But he didn't dare test if his ribs were healed by now.

He still hugged him, but not as tight as he would normally hug people. "John, I'm fine, they're healed," almost as if he knew what John was thinking about. But he practically did, and John squeezed Sherlock. Sherlock's phone chimed once more as it was another text from 'Lestrade'.

**Sherlock, Sally again, where is Molly? –L **

**What?!- SH**

**Molly Hooper, she's not there, wasn't she here when you were? She just left her wok unfinished, that's not like her… Sherlock?-L**

John let him read the texts and send one, but he took the phone again, as Sherlock was getting even more pissed by the second, "They're targeting the people that anyone would think don't matter, but do, and a great deal. John," he gripped the soldier's shoulders tightly, "I have to find them. if I don't, I won't be able to live with myself," he threatened.

John saw the hurt and the worry and the anger, and decided to make his detective sit down, "Sherlock, they will be found, I promise. Do you know how I know?" John asked and Sherlock hummed as he looked up at the soldier above him, "Because I know you will find something to go on," John assured the burnet.

* * *

"Le-Lestrade? She struggled, "Gregory?" she asked again, and reached out as someone grabbed her arm and yanked her forward.

"Molly? Dear God, I thought I was alone. Do you know who brought us here? Or, where we are even?" Molly shook her head as she tried to place her finger on it. This place was painfully familiar. Was this…? She looked around again, and recognized the way the wall was chipped.

"Did you ever go to a rave in uni?" she asked as she stood and took the torch from the wall. She looked around the corner, and surely, there was a door, but it was locked. Greg was confused, "I came to a rave once, here while in uni, it was fun, until the police caught us," she chuckled, then coughed.

"Never thought you were the partying type, Ms. Hooper," Greg flattered her. he couldn't help but to flirt, he was surely going to die and Molly was gorgeous, Gregory had been admiring her and her work for quite some time now, but he knew she wouldn't want him.

"Oh, that was years ago, though. Whoever brought us here, they wanted me to remember this. Either that, or they thought it would be funny. Well, it's not!" she shouted as she banged on the door.

She placed the torch where it was originally and cleared another spot, this time bigger, where Greg and her sat, in the dirt and they leaned against each other. Shoulder to shoulder, just wondering what the hell they were doing here.

Molly would have started crying, but she had someone here with her, and she wasn't alone, and she was just now noticing how much she and him had in common. There was little they didn't agree on, like the fact that death was certain at this point.

They just hoped that Sherlock and John were searching for them. that was when the lock turned in the door and they heard someone scream at someone, demanded they be let go of. She stumbled and as they closed the door on her, she screamed in frustration, "You stupid bloody prick! Give me my phone!" but she knew it was a lost cause.

"Anthea?" Greg stood and Molly followed, not sure who this was, but she was beautiful. She had huge bouncy curls that were a dark rich brown and her blouse and skirt hugged her tight and gave her hips the most attention.

"Lestrade? Molly?" how does she know Molly's name? "Oh, that's right you don't know me. I work for Mycroft, Sherlock's elder. I admire your work, it's amazing," Molly blushed and Anthea shook Greg, "Where the hell am I?" she asked.

Gregory shrugged as Molly answered, "Well, I'm pretty sure this was the tomb that was most popular for college kids to rave at. I did once, but that was a while ago. Anyway, if that's the case, I know my way out, but that door is the only one," she pointed to the bolted door in front of them.

"That's a lost cause, it's got three men guarding it," Anthea pointed out. Molly and Greg gave her confused looks, "Yes, they drugged me, but I recovered faster, and I was already inside this maze, so they didn't think it would do any harm. They were right, I have no fucking clue where we are," she admitted. "And those bastards took my phone!" she yelled at the door.

"So, whoever this is, they're rich? Or at least, know some people who owe them favors?" Greg wondered. Anthea nodded and her curls bounced about her chest. Gregory wasn't Sherlock, but he wasn't stupid, either. He had solved some pretty confusing cases as well.

But this one was the worst of all. Even now, he doubted Sherlock's ability to find them. "What I want to know is where all the bones came from," Molly looked around her. she kicked a few out of their spot and sat down again.

She suddenly felt sad for all those people that would never rest easy, because of all the things that happened down here, all the parties, all the stowaways. All three looked around once more and they decided this was a tomb, but it had been disturbed.

All the bones had been scattered instead of in their coffins, or cubbies, as it seemed to be. from the variation of sizes, everyone was here. Male, female, and children. She almost cried again, but controlled herself.

"So, how did they get you? I thought you were always with Mycroft?" Greg asked Anthea.

"I was going home, as I told John, I have loads of free time and Mycroft lets me do whatever. Although, I think getting kidnapped won't get me promotable status," she joked.

"Molly?" they both asked her.

"I was working, and I was almost finished, but this voice whispered my name, and I don't know if it was either male or female, but that was all I heard and then someone grabbed me and I woke up here," she told them.

"Whispers?" Greg was astonished, "Did they ask you to 'come out and play'?" Gregory asked the little dirt blond. She nodded and Anthea's eyes widened.

"'Come out and play'? and your first and last name?" they both nodded and they realized that they were dealing with a psychopath as their captor. They would have said it was Moriarty, but it didn't sound like him, and Sherlock killed him years ago, literally.

It wasn't Irene, because she just wanted to live, therefore, no interest in capturing people. Then who the hell could be so bloody clever and insane? Would they even live to find out?

* * *

**Y'all should tell me what you think! As in friggin' give me reviews! Please?... :)**


	4. So Many Questions Left Unanswered

**Author's Warning: Stressed out Sherlock is not a happy Sherlock…. And John hates it, but who wouldn't be pissed that their friends are… oh never mind. Just read it, and enjoy it! :D**

* * *

So Many Questions Left Unanswered

"John!" Sherlock yelled at his soldier.

"What do you want now?!" he yelled from his room, and suddenly Sherlock was in his room behind him, and he was only in his pants, "Sherlock, I'm not even dressed! What the hell-" and he was cut short by Sherlock's arms wrapping around him and he could feel his detective's chest on his back; he was wearing his robe, but not a shirt.

"John," said the whispering voice in his ear, as the curls he knew so well tickled his ear, "this case is stressing me out to no end," Sherlock admitted. He hated admitting his feelings, but he didn't care as much when it was with John.

"Well, they are our friends, Sherlock. I, myself am stressed," he admitted to the detective hanging over him. "Do you think Mycroft has anything?" he then asked.

Sherlock sighed and let go, "I-" he hadn't even thought of that, he had forgotten that his brother even cared, "maybe. I haven't called since yesterday," he ruffled his curls and went to the main room and John finished dressing himself. He brought himself to the main room, and Sherlock was on the phone with his brother, no doubt.

When he hung up he simply plopped the phone on his desk and faced John, but John was too caught in everything to notice the beauty of Sherlock. Yes, it was there, but he didn't look as he always did. Sherlock was a little disappointed, but he slapped on the best mask he's ever worn. John could see right through it, but that was John, he was so different.

Ms. Hudson walked through the kitchen and looked over her boys, "I'm sorry for everything that's happened lately," she said suddenly. She stared at Sherlock without his shirt, and for a moment, just stared.

Interruption, "It's fine, we'll be fine," she gave him a look that said, 'No you won't, look at John…' Sherlock did glance at John, and he was shot, but it was evident that neither of them were resting until Molly and Lestrade are found. "By the way, John, Mycroft says that Anthea is missing as well, just to let you know," Sherlock said.

"Great," John mumbled sarcastically and ran his hand over his face while sighed.

"I think I know what the captor is doing, and if I do, you're next, John," Sherlock accused.

"What, do you want to use me as bait?" he said sarcastically, although, the more he thought about it, the more that sounded like a good idea.

"John, I would never do that to you," Sherlock started.

He never finished, "No, but I would do that to me. Come on, Sherlock, what other choice do we have? We've got nothing except that Sally found Greg's phone."

Sherlock was about to ask who Greg was, but he was starting to get the hang of it, _Greg is Lestrade. _"John, you are not presenting yourself to them, hell, for all we know all three of them are dead," the detective pointed out. Sherlock swearing was interesting, but John let it slide.

"Don't say that," John warned. Mrs. Hudson scuttled out of the flat and John and Sherlock had yet another domestic about whether John was going to be used as bait or not. Finally, it turned to John walking out of the flat, and he was used as bait anyway, whether either of them wanted it or not.

* * *

"John…" it whispered, "John Watson…" he looked over his shoulder and saw Sherlock following him, but not the whisperer in his ear. "Come out and play John Watson. Doctor Watson…" and it giggled. Sherlock was closer, but he couldn't stop the one person that emerged from the building beside John. Out from the shadows came the giggling, and John couldn't breathe as a white cloth was thrown over his face.

But John was resilient, and he didn't pass out until he heard Sherlock scream his name. But John was gone before Sherlock ever reached that spot. He disappeared into the shadows and was gone before Sherlock could pick up his scent.

But there was one mistake they made, taking Sherlock's doctor was going to get them killed. Sherlock didn't care anymore, this was the last fucking straw and it was drawn by the captor of his soldier. Sherlock was done with this shit…

* * *

The stranger struggled with dragging John, but soon they adjusted to the weight of his hidden muscle that they hadn't calculated. He was asleep so peacefully, yet you could see it in his face that he was still fighting to wake up.

He needed sleep, but he also needed to find his friends. He was torn between his physical needs and his emotional needs. The Stranger almost felt sorry for John, but they changed that and were emotionless once again.

They couldn't afford to feel sorry for the captives while the loved one was still on the streets of loving and caring people that would do anything for someone they fell for. The Stranger wished to kill Sherlock, and put violence over London again. _I want the streets filled with violence, as my life was and is. I want them to lose their parents as I and my siblings and many others have. I want them to suffer as I have…_

Soon they reached the building that everyone abandoned, but was used for parties and drug deals in the past. But the reason it was abandoned was why the Stranger used it in the first place. It had a tomb under it that was filled with those who have suffered as the Stranger had. They felt at home in the tomb. They felt as if they were being understood by those who died at the torturous hands of evil.

And ironically, this was what lead the Stranger to being cold, the fact that they were never warm in the first place. They never had someone tell them they love them. Which was why they were after Sherlock. He was the most loved man in London.

Everyone loved him in some way, even those who claimed they hated him. They all needed him, as the Stranger had need their parents, and they were brutally ripped from them, so this was the Stranger ripping love from the loved ones, and making them go insane with loss, as the Stranger had done.

This was revenge on anyone who would take it, and in this case, Sherlock was taking it. _And no matter what anyone says, he enjoys the rush of this. Sure, he was worried to pieces, but he enjoys solving the puzzle and getting the prize of love._

_This is why this bastard is going to feel my pain, he will feel what he dreads most: emotions, and they will do as he hates most: they will rule his judgment…_

* * *

John woke in someplace he didn't recognize at first. There were bones under him and he was sitting against a wall beside, "Greg! Molly? Anthea?" and they all greeted him.

"John? They really are tempting the Holmes brothers. No one touches Greg and John," Molly almost giggled. She was practically going insane.

Anthea blinked several times, "What do you mean?" _so she doesn't know about them. _

"Oh, it's just that John and Greg are… let's just say important to the Holmes brothers. Anyone touches them and they're dead." now John and Gregory understood what she meant. They sighed at how everyone always thought the worst of two male best friends.

"You too, huh?" John asked as he crossed his legs and straightened his back.

"Yes, Jesus, it sucks! But in my case, they're not far off. I'm not even sure if Mycroft actually cares, but-"

"Oh no, if Sherlock and Mycroft are anything alike, you're not his distraction from the ever day thing, he's just hiding whatever emotion he has," John snarled, Sherlock needs to show more of his emotions. John hated it when he put that mask on, that wasn't Sherlock, it was a robot that replaced Sherlock.

"Well, Mycroft and I haven't even kissed, but yeah, he definitely hides emotions. But I can see them," Greg said proudly.

"Right? God, sometimes Sherlock tries so hard his emotions explode out of him. But no one else notices, it intrigues me to think that they can be so stupid," John insulted.

Molly and Anthea had started a conversation of their own, "So," Anthea started, stroking Molly's hair from her face, "Do you still have an interest in Sherlock?" she asked.

"I don't know," she admitted, "but I believe he is looking for us, if that's what you're getting at," she stated.

"Oh, and Mycroft will be furious that his pet was taken." (She didn't mean herself), "But seriously, you are really pretty, why hasn't he- oh. Well, that does put a damper on things," she suddenly realized why Sherlock had no interest in anyone. Besides John….

"Yeah," Molly shot John a look, "I don't know if they're shagging yet, but it's a little obvious that they're at least a little more than just friends. Just the way they look at each other," _the eye sex, God it was so obvious. _

"Have you ever considered falling for someone else, someone you'd be more…" she searched for the word, "familiar with," she explained.

"'Familiar'? as in, the same sex?" Molly guessed.

"Exactly," Anthea smiled. Molly thought about this for a moment, she really hadn't thought that maybe that was the reason she couldn't find the right one for her. Maybe it wasn't even a he… that was when she started noticing things she hadn't before.

She noticed the way Anthea's curls hung about her breasts and her back, making them look black, but in reality they were a really dark brown. Against her white blouse, you could tell that she died it black, but it was wearing off.

The way her make-up was done said she didn't really need it, but it made her feel better. She barely wore any. Her lips looked as if they'd be soft to touch, or kiss. Molly shook herself, "No, I hadn't really thought of that. I never thought it would ever work, though. I mean, I've heard of so many gay couples who never lasted," she admitted.

Their conversations floated away, though as John thought of a song, and he hated that he got it stuck in his head, but this situation reminded him of it.

He thought of 'This Is Why We Fight', by the Decemberists. He started humming it and Molly recognized it right away. She announced the name and the band and John nodded. She started singing the lyrics and John joined her as the other two were so confused.

Anthea had heard this from somewhere, oh! The radio, and Lestrade was just completely left out of the loop. He had no idea who the hell the Decemberists were, and he had no idea why they were singing. But when that was over with, Molly started with Anthea again, "Did you know that?"

"Not particularly, no. I've heard it before, but never bothered to listen to it without the radio," she admitted.

"Oh, well, the song is lovely if you're not trapped in a dirt hole," Molly tried to joke, and Anthea laughed quietly. _No one laughs at my jokes… _Anthea confused Molly, who ever laughs at her jokes? No one ever pays attention to her for more than just her assistance. No one ever likes Molly Hooper.

"You're not so boring, I thought you might be, but I guess Sherlock and John were wrong about something yet again," she stroked her hair again. Does Anthea have an interest in Molly? Possibly, but that's for another time.

At that moment, someone was coming through the door, and everyone in the room gaped at the woman who walked through the door as the bones on the floor parted from the doorway again to let it open.

* * *

"Yes! Mycroft, he was taken from the streets of London, literally! Where is my soldier and for that matter where is your detective inspector?!" Sherlock was getting so frustrated he couldn't think straight.

"How could you not have seen who it was?" Mycroft asked in his usual tone, and he seemed to not care, but he did. A great deal.

"They came from the shadows, and just took him. They're taunting me by dangling him on a string just out of my reach! I will not have my doctor be used in this fashion! Find him!" Sherlock demanded.

"I told you sentiment ruined your thought process," Mycroft accused Sherlock of thinking about this all the wrong way. "Act as if they're just hostages, and this person wants you to go to them," he suggested.

"They are just hostages," Sherlock reasoned and his head was clear. He stored away John and made him shut up (even in his mind, John was telling him he got something wrong and now there was more danger) while he thought about this.

"Where would this stranger have taken them, Sherlock?" Mycroft prompted. "Would it be a place you know?"

Sherlock was mumbling to himself about this as he searched.

* * *

She emerged from the light and looked down on Molly and Anthea. Greg and John looked as well. The light from the door was letting them see who this was, and it was, "Mary," Anthea greeted, "Nice to see you, so why are you here?" Anthea took this surprisingly well, but on the inside she was running around with a chicken with its head cut off. She had no idea what was going on, and masked it with snide remarks.

"Isn't it obvious?" she asked, "I'm helping," she smiled wickedly and Anthea guessed it wasn't them she was helping, "You are correct, but I need to speak with Molly," she seized her by the arm, and while walking by, she smiled at John, that warm smile she always hid behind.

John didn't like this, he knew Mary was hiding something, but this? This was too much. Greg put an arm around John and he leaned into him, any other time, this would have been awkward, but he needed contact, and Greg was there.

He almost cried, but it was replaced with anger as the door shut and they heard a scream. Anthea jumped and listened through the door, and John joined her, Greg stood off to the side waiting for one of them to tell him what they heard.

They heard someone giggle and instantly knew it was the voice from earlier, and as it spoke, they still couldn't tell if it was male or female, it kept bouncing from one to the other. Each word was a different gender, "This will work," it said.

"I hope so," Mary said, almost snarling. Was she pissed? At what? They moved back as she stepped back through the door, "Anthea," the voice whispered to her. It was loud and defined, but still a whisper. How this person did this, no one knows.

That's when the other two heard their names, "Gregory, John…" they walked out and there was Molly, on the floor that was still dirt and she had blood coming from her mouth.

"What did you do to her?!" Anthea screamed, fearing the worst. But John and Greg were too distracted by the sight in front of them.

"She's in a far better place now," _No need for them to know as well. _"As for the rest of you, call me Stranger, I prefer it since it has no specific gender put to it," Stranger admitted. Stranger had the face of a woman but the build of a man, and the hair didn't help any. It was short, but it was to their shoulders, so no one could tell if this was a man or a woman. "I know," Stranger said, still shifting from gender to gender, "I'm a freak," it admitted.

* * *

Sherlock saw Molly fall to the floor when the poison had spread across her through the needle that was in her neck, but now it was on the floor beside her. It had made her bleed, either that or it was the fact that they had punched her, but could that much blood come from a punch?

Sherlock examined this as he listened to the genderless voice. No, it was from the punch, just a lot more, had Molly ever been hurt before? Physically, anyway?

Then, Sherlock's attention went to the genderless voice, _No, both genders. _Sherlock looked Stranger over again, male on the outside and female on the inside, both, but neither has taken dominance.

That was strange, usually one dominated the other, although there were still traces of the other gender, but he had never seen a case like this. Where they had completely evened themselves out to make Stranger.

When he had seen the Stranger grip John, he emerged with a small smile playing his full lips, "Hello Stranger," he understood the thing with names, he hated it when people didn't use his.

"Sherlock," Stranger gripped tighter and John felt the blood stop running to his hand. Stranger felt this as well. "Do you know how much this man loves you?" Stranger asked, obviously hurt by the word love. No, deprived of love, and this was why Stranger had cringed.

Sherlock got it now, they were jealous. Majorly, but that was all this was. This person had been deprived of any human contact, any of someone telling them they loved them. Sherlock saw this and as he pulled out a gun, "Why take Anthea and Molly?" he questioned.

"To show you that you did love them, just that you didn't notice until now. Your brother has love, too, don't forget," Stranger smiled, their lips curving into a pleasant sight, but their eyes said something so much more.

"If I was to kill you right now, what would Mary do?" Sherlock asked.

"Good question, no one would have asked that, you really are a genius," Stranger complimented. "I don't know, Mary what would you do, dear?" they asked the blond who had a smirk on her face the whole time as she watched everything fold out over them.

"I would snap John's neck and Lestrade and Anthea can live with you for the rest of your sad existence," she grinned. John knew that break-up was too good to be true. But she had used that smile, and John had fallen for it so many times.

He hated it now, he hated her, he loved her, but he hated what she had become, but then he realized, _I did this. All of it, I did this… _

Sherlock saw that flash in John's eyes as Stranger let go of his wrist and he rubbed it, as the blood flowed again and it tingled. Sherlock wanted to comfort him, but he couldn't very well do that with this person standing between him and his soldier.

He was tempted to shoot, but Mary was inching closer to John as his finger was so close to the trigger, he was literally itching to fire. He wanted to hear the sound of the final bullet that would declare that this was all over.

That was when Sherlock caught John's eyes. He twitched slightly and Sherlock noticed that this was a sign that he would handle Mary as long as Sherlock fired. But before he could he knelt to Molly and felt for a pulse.

There wasn't one, at least, not an obvious one. Sherlock's fingers lingered and he felt the breath of one, gasping that she was alive and fighting, but not for long if Sherlock didn't get her out of here. But Stranger pulled out a small knife they had hidden in their belt, and it struck Lestrade's abdomen, burying deep for its small size.

He fell on his knees and John went to assess this and he made Greg lie back as Sherlock pulled the trigger. Mary went for John and he held her off, but her eyes made him freeze. Those eyes that loved him for so long.

Stranger hit the floor and Anthea took her phone and went to Molly, texting Mycroft their address, because she had now remembered what Molly was talking about, the raves in uni that were held here. A couple of Mycroft's men hurried there after his order was barked out.

"Sherlock," Mary taunted as he looked to her and found her hold John down on the table, "He's so cute and adorable when he's embarrassed, or dying," she had injected something into him as Stranger had done to Molly, but this liquid was different and John knew it.

Once Mary knew the poison had spread by now, she kissed John deeply, and knowing what she was doing, John gladly let her. Mary coughed as she backed away, and ran away, revealing the path she had taken to get here.

Sherlock was about to shoot, but then he also realized what she had done, she had poisoned herself, and now she was going to slowly die. "Sherlock," but she knew she would be left alone since John is dying as well, and at a faster pace than she is.

This was her original mission, to kill John. But she chose to do it in a creative way. Mycroft's men burst through the hall and scooped up Gregory and Molly, Sherlock warned them to be careful as he took John from the floor, "It's okay, John, I'm here and I'm never leaving."

_Sherlock…I love you, _but just as he wanted to say it, his mouth went dry and he passed out in his lover's strong arms. He could finally relax and sleep, hopefully he would wake up. Though he didn't want to.

* * *

John woke in a hospital, with Sherlock bent over him, finally asleep. John decided this was a joyous occasion and that if Sherlock was asleep, then everyone else was okay. John decided that he would try to sleep again, but realized he couldn't.

So he watched his detective sleep, and loved every moment of the shallow breathing he could hear from the relaxed lover he had in his lap. He looks so at peace with himself. No mask, but what emotion was there to express in your sleep? But then John saw a blush creep over Sherlock's cheeks.

Looks like someone's having fun, "John… Mmmm," he huffed. John never knew Sherlock talked in his sleep, then again, John had never seen him sleep long enough to hear what he was hearing now…

* * *

**Didn't want to leave you completely hanging, but the next chapter will be up soon enough... So, Reviews?**


	5. I Will Never Accept Defeat

I Will Never Accept Defeat

John realized he had fallen asleep and Sherlock had woken up and was staring at him, with those bluish grey eyes that made John's butterflies flutter into his throat to where he could only smile. Sherlock's hand had taken John's, "John," Sherlock smiled.

John ran a hand through his curls and it landed on his cheek, and he leaned into this touch that he didn't want to ever stop. "When do I get to go back to the flat?" John complained.

"Well," he moved and picked up John's chart from the end of the bed, "Right now, if you like," he gave a devilish grin and John shook his head, but still smiled. That was when a nurse walked in, and Sherlock's smile faded.

He hated nurses, they always think they know what they're doing and usually they get something wrong. "So, how soon can I go the fuck home?" John complained to her. Sherlock was used to his loose swearing, since it had become worse over the two years.

"Soon," her voice soothed.

He crossed his arms over his chest and Sherlock smiled and almost laughed that he started to pout. Sherlock cleared his throat, "He's going now, actually. I'm taking him home, now," she looked at him as if to say, 'Who the hell do you think you are?'

He winked at her and she just left the room, giving up. John pulled everything off of him and Sherlock brought his clothes from a chair, "I knew you'd want to get back as soon as possible," he smiled warmly. It wasn't a mischievous smile, or a devilish grin, it was a smile meant to present care and Sherlock gave it to John.

John smiled and a hint of blush came out as he dressed and Sherlock's coat twirled on as they left. John was still a little tired, but when they got out into the fresh morning air, he was wide awake and ready for anything that was thrown at him.

"So," as they walked the stiffness from John, "How are the rest of them?" Lestrade, Anthea and Molly.

Sherlock took John's hand, "Well, Molly's recovering faster than expected and Lestrade is recovering as anyone would expect, and Anthea," he crunched up his nose, "I have no idea. I don't much like her, though."

"Because she reminds you of yourself," John suggested. Sherlock rolled his eyes and just now realized he had John's fingers in between his. He smiled and they took a good two hours to get home. But the walk was worth it. John felt good and Sherlock had slept and the hospital had forced him to eat, so he was… good enough.

"I love being a doctor, but I hate being in the hospital bed, I don't know why, but it irks me," John explained.

John closed the door, "I know," and John threw his coat off and slipped Sherlock's from his shoulders and as they hit the floor, he grabbed Sherlock into a hug. So, there they stood, held in an embrace that could have been so many things. A friend's gesture, a boyfriend's hug telling them they'll always be there or telling them they missed each other, or a flatmates comforting methods.

And somehow, they seemed to be all three. Sherlock sunk into John and he leaned back on the door to keep on his tired feet. Sherlock noticed this and took his wrist in leading him to the main room and John's chair, where he forced him to sit.

And he did something John could never have expected from his detective. He climbed on top of John, slipped his shoes from his feet and John did the same as their foreheads were touching.

For some reason, they both saw the opportunity, but neither wanted to take it. Well, they wanted to, but they didn't know if they should. They were stuck wondering if the other wanted the same thing. But Sherlock went out on a limb and guessed (yes, he guessed, definitely not Sherlock… *eye roll*) from John's reactions, he wanted this just as much as Sherlock, maybe more.

Sherlock leaned in closer to John's lips, their foreheads no longer touching. John noticed this, and he leaned up as Sherlock's lips were on his and it wasn't clear who had kissed who, but it didn't really matter, did it?

They slightly separated and John brought him down for more, but it wasn't a bruising kiss, or a lustful kiss, it was passionate and full of the things he hadn't said to Sherlock and wished he had. This reminds him, and they separate for a short period while John says, "I love you," he smiled and Sherlock ignored those words and kissed him again.

Then he realized what John had said and stopped, shocked, "Really? I'm not a very lovable person-"

Kiss, "Do shut up," he whispered.

But before their lips made contact again, "I love you, soldier," and John's tongue ran out across Sherlock's fluffy little pleasure makers. He was hesitant, but he opened his lips slightly and John slipped through. But when he tasted John, he wanted more, and bent his neck in just the right way to let John explore more.

Sherlock didn't care if John bit him right now, the taste of his blond in him was everlasting, even after they parted and John's jumper was pulled over his head. John decided that since this wasn't the purple one, he'd rip it open and not care if the buttons bounced off his skin.

Sherlock didn't mind, and as it slid to the floor, Sherlock worked on John's buttons and leaned into him. Big mistake, well, it was if you didn't want kisses and licks all over your neck and a love mark on your shoulder.

John left these on Sherlock as he finally had John's shirt off with trembling fingers from the pleasure he threw it at the wall. But, of course, instead of hitting the wall, it hit Mrs. Hudson, she exclaimed and left immediately. Why are they always caught in the worst situations?

Then again, John didn't care, all he did was drag Sherlock to his bedroom upstairs, because he didn't want to be interrupted again. John could barely lock the door behind him before Sherlock was on him from behind and kissing and biting at John's neck and part of his scarred shoulder.

As John turned around, that was what interested Sherlock the most, that scar from the bullet that left a dent in John's perfect skin. Sherlock could tell that whoever stitched it was in a hurry and it took so many stitches and the angle… John did it himself.

Sherlock stopped tilting his head at deducing this and John was kissing him again, distracting him from the atrocity on his shoulder. He hated when people stared. But Sherlock wasn't people, somehow, he didn't count. Not that he didn't matter, but he was different, John also was turned on by him so much more than he was anyone else.

Well… nope, Sherlock was definitely the biggest turn on he's ever had, and that was determined by the fact that he just rubbed them together from their chests to their thighs, and John could feel Sherlock's bulge against his own and it felt so good.

Sherlock smiled at the gasp and moaned when John moved them closer and started shifting this situation to the sheets of John's bed. He hadn't slept in it in so long, or so it seemed like a long time. And as he pressed Sherlock to the blanket, he decided he would finally have some fucking sleep afterwards. Real sleep, not being knocked out by something or someone else.

But that was for so much later. Now it was time for a long-and-waited-for for what seemed to be forever shag. Although John had no fucking idea what he was doing, he simply repeated what had been done to him sometimes and added a little of his own things where he thought they'd be needed.

Like when he kissed down Sherlock's chest, he added his right hand teasing Sherlock's nipple and the left did as always, made circles around his navel and when John left another love mark on his hip, Sherlock moaned.

He tortured his abdomen with kisses as Sherlock's trousers were off and on the floor, and his socks followed. John was greedy and his lips and hands and teeth were all over Sherlock. His neck, his chest, his abdomen, his thighs, God, John wanted all of it!

Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's hips and brought him close enough so his long arms could reach and undo the button that was about to explode if it wasn't undone. Sherlock's feet stripped the jeans from John as their lips met and this time didn't let go, they only deepened the kisses.

John shook himself from his trousers and his socks were pulled off in the collision, and he was lying on Sherlock and they were only in their pants, but it felt so good, just laying there and kissing endlessly and their groins rubbed together faintly and both of them were moaning so much it felt like they were vibrating on each other.

Sherlock's head landed on the pillows as John pinned him down and his fingers found the band of Sherlock's pants. They were removed and landed on the floor as Sherlock gave a not-fair look that John had seen so many times he had to chuckle and let Sherlock's fingers dig under his pants, and as those long fingers pulled John's pants from his hips, they brushed over the erection that was definitely a little larger than average.

Though, Sherlock was pretty big for his measurements as well. John couldn't help but notice that Sherlock was a little longer than him when they rubbed together. He would have been jealous, but why be jealous when it was yours to play with anyway?

And he did. His fingers traced over Sherlock's stomach and the short hairs under his navel rose a little as John stroked Sherlock's length. And his thumb felt over the tip. And as John let go and grabbed something from the drawer on his nightstand, Sherlock took advantage of how close his erection was and he licked the tip.

John almost stopped, and he moaned so loud Sherlock was sure he had done a good job of deducing that one. He looked smug when John's fingers were suddenly wet and outside Sherlock's entrance. He gasped and hissed in pleasurable pain as one of John's digits slipped inside him.

John's knowledge on human anatomy helped him find Sherlock's prostate and he moaned when John slipped in another finger and brushed over it. As John was ready to pull his fingers out at the estimated time, Sherlock finally relaxed and John went for something else.

But this something else was, "Clearly not needed," and Sherlock plucked the condom from his fingers and threw it across the room. John raised his eyebrow but shrugged as he placed both hands on either side of Sherlock's head and his curls brushed his forearm as he slipped in, inch by agonizing inch.

Sherlock choked out a moan and was almost drooling when he brought John down closer and bit his shoulder lightly. But after the pain faded, he shuttered as John brushed his prostate lightly. "Mm," and that was his cue to pull out slowly and push back in, but these were loving thrusts, instead of fast and hard.

Usually, John wouldn't be so careful, but one, he's never done this before, and two, Sherlock had never done this before. All the girls he had been with had done it at least once before, but Sherlock's never done this.

And when he pushed back in for the third time, Sherlock screamed instead of moaning quietly. The zing he felt come from his backside spread over his whole body and John knew he had hit the spot. Sherlock was shaking from sensation, and he demanded, "Faster, harder, right there! Ah!" John followed his demands, and went faster, but only a little, and harder, yes, but not so hard.

But they were both still panting out moans and each other's names as sweat decorated the covers around them and a climax was happily reached. John tightened and saw that Sherlock was barely dripping.

So he fixed this by timing a few pumps with each thrust and they came together. John inside Sherlock, and Sherlock on John. He blushed a little extra at spilling on his soldier, but John simply disregarded it as if it happened all the time. It didn't but, who cares? Sherlock was still panting and he moaned as he moved to curl into John.

John chuckled and threw his arms around Sherlock and started noticing the mess they had made all over the floor, and not to mention each other. "Shower?" John asked Sherlock and he nodded, his breathing steady now. He wanted sleep, but that was far from now, and he knew that now.

John drug him from the bedroom and to the bathroom where Sherlock switched the water on, and John pulled Sherlock in. He went to work cleaning his chest and then Sherlock's curls were next. He squirted shampoo into them and worked it through to the scalp and Sherlock moaned at how good that felt with someone else doing that, and the water was so warm.

The soap was all over his body and John took his time with Sherlock's groin, almost making him hard again. John admired the beauty of Sherlock's body and it was mesmerizing. His pale skin folded around his muscles in such a way that made him so fucking attractive.

But it was John's turn as the soap was rinsed from Sherlock completely. John was going to clean himself, but Sherlock wiped the soap and did as John had done to him. Except when he did it, there wasn't as much hair to card through. Yes, it had gotten shaggy lately, but it wasn't as thick as Sherlock's and definitely still shorter than his.

Sherlock still loved the feel of John, no matter what and where it was, he loved it. Whether he was initiating the touch or it was John, none of that mattered was if John's skin had contact with Sherlock's. "I love you," he admitted as he wrapped his arms around John from behind, the soap long gone.

"I love you too, Sexy," he complimented.

"You know, people call me that, but I always thought I just looked weird, I also always thought you were the sexy one, but okay." John blushed, despite the water making his skin hot in the first place and Sherlock's nose nuzzled into John's neck.

"You don't look weird, you look so sexy that when you walk into a room, a straight man gets a hard on," he laughed.

"That's what happened to you?" Sherlock chuckled and they erupted into laughs as the water turned cold. They jumped out and dried off, only to hear Sherlock's cell vibrating. He dressed except for his shirt, and John dressed all the way as Sherlock scooped up his screaming cell, not literally, but it was just as annoying.

"You realize that the rest of my friends are in the hospital still, don't you?" he complained.

"I don't think I care," he had hesitated, he does care, at least for the DI in the bed with a morphine drip. "I need your help with this case especially, though. And I know you took John from the hospital, so bring him along as well," he sighed as if to add, "I guess so," and the elder hung up, and Sherlock heard a car park outside, and as he buttoned his shirt, he looked out the window.

He sighed as he had missed the bottom button, but didn't care as he tucked his flannel into his trousers. John hadn't bothered with a jumper and all that, he just wore a simple striped long sleeved shirt and threw his coat over it all as Sherlock's made more of a scene, twirling like that.

John smiled as his scarf followed, and so many thoughts ran through his head. Sherlock could see that he was thinking and when he blushed lightly, Sherlock smiled and took his hand, lacing their fingers in between one another's.

They climbed in the back of the car as they saw Anthea, typing away as she usually was. But this time, halfway through, she put her phone down, her vision a little blurry from holding it so close to her face. "John, I wanted you to know that Molly will be released from the hospital tomorrow," and she ignored Sherlock's presence, as she always did.

She was typing again, as John noticed what was up with those two and why he had never seen her speak to him. At one point, she was interested in him, but he ignored her, as he does everyone else, but John. How many girls swooned over him before he realized that he didn't even like them back? Or that they were liking him?

No matter, because they were here, and John didn't recognize anything, as always. He was actually a little happy to see Mycroft twirled his umbrella and Sherlock didn't care. John was glad to be back to the usual routine, "You seem content John," Mycroft accused.

"Well, for the most part, I am. I mean, my friends almost died, but that happens almost every day, so…" he pursed his lips and shut up.

Sherlock's lips twitched as if he wanted to smile at the fact that John had never let go of his hand. "So," Sherlock distracted as he looked around the warehouse, "Why here?"

"Why any other place?" Mycroft asked, contradicting Sherlock's question with his own.

Sherlock shrugged, "Why are we here? What do you need my help with?" no emotion, just business. John knew they were hiding everything and honestly, with the eye gestures, John was glad they were hiding everything.

"It's about the other one," Sherlock stiffened. 'The other one', was a long lost memory that Sherlock had stored a long time ago. He hated the man.

"'The other one'?" John had to ask, Sherlock almost broke his mask of emotions, but he calmed himself.

Mycroft explained, "Our older brother, he's only got two years on me, though. He escaped the little idea you had given me," Mycroft stiffened as well, as Sherlock's fingers threatened to cut off the circulation in John's.

He dealt with the pain as Sherlock almost seemed to snarl, "I only suggested he be put in solitary confinement, I never said he wasn't to be put in a regular jail," Sherlock was pissed that this man was even mentioned.

"Right, well, just wanted to let you know that he's dead," Mycroft informed, "The guards," he said simply as he let one emotion slips. Anger flashed through his eyes as Sherlock's coat waved and he drug John away.

They walked all the way home, which wasn't long because Sherlock took so many shortcuts, it might as well have been its own path.

He slammed the door shut and huffed as he sat in his chair, not bothering with his coat and scarf as John kneeled beside him…

* * *

**Sorry, I just dropped a huge bomb there, but the next, and sadly the last, chapter will explain everything. I'll wrap it all in a pretty bow for y'all! Haha, so, reviews?**


	6. Sociopath's Kryptonite

Sociopath's Kryptonite

John kneeled by Sherlock, "I know I don't have a right to ask, but can I?" John rubbed his forearm, trying to get him to speak. Sherlock sighed, simply getting up and removing his coat and scarf, plopping them on the couch lazily and walking to the kitchen as John did the same. Their coats looked so weird next to each other without them in them.

But John followed Sherlock into the kitchen as he started to make tea. John sat at the table, declaring that he will clean it one day, just not today. He sighed when the cuppa was set down in front of him and Sherlock still hadn't spoken yet. But that was all in good time.

Sherlock sipped slowly on the hot almost burning his tongue liquid, and finally stared at John as he said, "Keith was a difficult man to grow up with," he admitted. Keith, it sounded so normal compared to the others' names. Sherlock and Mycroft, strange. But they were strange men, so….

But anyway, "He was a genius, but not in the way everyone thought. He had taken a higher position in the British Government than even Mycroft. Not by much, but still. And he was planning things even more devious than Moriarty could have ever come up with," Sherlock sipped again as John flinched at the memories of Moriarty and those stupid bombs.

"Anyway, someone he held rather close to him, revealed this out of fear, and he was thrown in jail and executed before anyone could remember his name. That, John, is why sentiment is dangerous. They reveal everything about someone, whether they mean to or not," John almost felt insulted, but then he realized that Sherlock risked this to be with him, and that was more of a compliment than any other he had been given.

John pondered why Sherlock was so calm now, but so angry before. He was about to ask, but Sherlock answered for him, "He was my idol," he grimaced, "But when he was executed and I was told why, I became like Mycroft instead. I still regret admitting this, but I do idolize him to some point," he admitted.

"Well, he is your older brother, that is to be expected to at least some extent," John shrugged and his thoughts went back to Keith, "But, I didn't think that your family was so… complicated," he sipped on the now cooler liquid in his cup. Still warm, but cooling fast, just how John loved it.

"Every family has the bad kid, and in my case, he was a genius, so it was just a lot worse than the normal cases in the normal families. And don't take offense to this, but in your case, it's Harry who turned out to be the rebel of the family," John shrugged and drank more to distract himself from getting angry. He was still pissed at that row they had and when she left.

"Well, in my case, she's an idiot who didn't take my advice," John sneered through his cup. Sherlock shrugged and drummed his fingers on the table to a beat that John swore he recognized, "Play that," he gestured to Sherlock's fingers.

He looked down to them and sighed in delight and a little bit a frustration at having to move. But he then dug something out that John didn't even know Sherlock had in his mitts. He brought out a guitar, an acoustic, to be exact, from somewhere in the main room_. Probably behind his desk._

He sat in the kitchen chair as John gaped at the beauty in the blue of the guitar, and the beauty of the man holding it. "I didn't know you even-"

"If you know how to play the violin or the piano, you can easily learn the guitar or any other stringed instrument. Now, please do shut up," he threw John's words back at him, and John blushed at the fact that he had even been paying attention enough during certain events to catch that.

When he started playing, the words to this song came flowing back to John's memory, it was a song that John thought no one had even remembered. It was by 3 Doors Down, and it was called Citizen Soldier. It sounded a little strange coming from an acoustic, but it was amazing all the same.

John caught up and started humming as Sherlock nodded at him, as if saying he should sing. At first, he was a little shy, but he piped up and sang quietly to himself but Sherlock started to glare at him playfully. He smirked through the lyrics and spoke up, or sang up or whatever…

Still, he loved this song, and he never quit loving this song ever since his mother had sung it to him, and it was part of the reason he had joined the Army, but only a small part. He had so many other reasons for joining, but those were his.

Now, he sat here singing his favorite song and Sherlock was his favorite lover by far now. He was surprised that Sherlock even knew that song and he asked how when he stopped and Sherlock had as well, "Despite what you think, I listen to good music. It may not be as much anymore, but I was quite the little brat as a teen," he smiled and John shook his head slowly and smirked.

"See, and that's where we differ. I'm the good guy, but the sidekick, and you're the pompous arse, but the hero," John laughed as Sherlock glared at him.

"So, which hero am I, then?" he asked, curious.

John shrugged and answered freely, "I don't know, how about Superman," he smiled and leaned closer to Sherlock and his beauty of a music maker.

"Well, then I guess you are in many ways, my Kryptonite," and he leaned in closer and their lips met for a brief moment. Mrs. Hudson then walked in and sighed, _So cute! _

"You two need to find a room and stick to it," she pretended to complain, and they broke apart, both blushing. "Sherlock, where did that come from?" she gestured to the guitar as she collected the dishes from the table.

"A place, why would you care?" he gave a snarky remark.

"Well, It's a lovely little guitar. It's pretty, and who was singing?" she eyed both of them. She shot a glance to John, saying she knew. He blushed to a scarlet. "That was lovely, too," she admitted and put a hand to Sherlock's shoulder as she winked at John.

"So, I just wanted to say that you two need to keep quiet," both of them knowing what she meant, grinned at each other, "It's bad enough we've got the married ones," she waggled her finger, but they only busted out into laughter.

She shook her small curls, smiling slightly, and retreated from the flat. They looked to each other and Sherlock stood, holding the guitar by its neck. He carefully put it away and John silently praised himself for 'deducing' where Sherlock had stored the dark blue wonder.

"Do you want to go visit Molly, or Gregory?" John offered, seeing the boredom in Sherlock's features.

But he shook his head, "Why don't we just relax for today, and pick up some gut wrenching cases tomorrow," he winked. John blinked several times, Sherlock has been so out of character lately.

But they settled in Sherlock's chair, John on top of him and their legs crossed into each other as they were half leaning half sitting on one another. Sherlock flipped on the telly and they watched slash listened while they were sometimes distracted by stray kisses here and there.

All in all, and given the circumstances, these two couldn't have been more happy.

* * *

**A quick ending, but still cute, and explains the name of the story. Reviews? : ) I would love your forever... :)**


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